call upon you to spake for me. Didn't you see, when we went out to the
hills, that it was Mike carried the gun, an' not me?”
“I did,” replied Rody. “I can swear to that.”
“Ay,” exclaimed Prank, with triumph; “an' you yourself, Darby, saw us,
as I said, makin' up whatsomever little differences there was betwixt
us.”
“I did,” replied the mendicant, sternly; “but I heard you say, no longer
ago than last night--say!--why you swhore it, man alive!--that if you
wouldn't have Peggy Gartland, he never should. In your own stable I
heard it, an' I was the manes of disappointin' you an' your gang, when
you thought to take away the girl by force. You're well known too often
to carry a fair face when the heart under it is black wid you.”
“All I can say is,” observed young Reillaghan, “that if it comes out
agin you that you played him foul, all the earth won't save your life;
I'll have your heart's blood, if I should hang for it a thousand times.”
This dialogue was frequently interrupted by the sobbings and clamor of
the women, and the detached conversation of some of the men, who
were communicating to each other their respective opinions upon the
melancholy event which had happened.
Darby More now brought Reillaghan's father aside, and thus addressed
him:--
“Gluntho! (* Listen)--to tell God's thruth, I've sthrong suspicions
that your son was murdhered. This sacred thing that I put the crass upon
people's breast wid, saves people from hangin' an' unnatural deaths.
Frank spoke to me last night, no longer ago, to come up an' mark it an'
him to-morrow. My opinion is, that he intinded to murdher him at that
time, an' wanted to have a protection agin what might happen to him in
regard o' the black deed.”
“Can we prove it agin him?” inquired the disconsolate father: “I know
it'll be hard, as there was no one present but themselves; an' if he did
it, surely he'll not confess it.”
“We may make him do it maybe,” said the mendicant; “the villain's asily
frightened, an' fond o' charms an' pisthrogues,* an' sich holy things,
for all his wickedness. Don't say a word. We'll take him by, surprise;
I'll call upon him to touch the corpse. Make them women--an' och, it's
hard to expect it--make them stop clappin' their hands an' cryin'; an'
let there be a dead silence, if you can.”
During this and some other observations made by Darby, Frank had got the
gun in his possession; and, whilst seeming to be engaged in looking at
it, and examining the lock, he actually contrived to reload it without
having been observed.
“Now, neighbors,” said Darby, “hould your tongues for a weeshy start,
till I ax Frank M'Kenna a question or two. Frank M'Kenna, as you hope
to meet God, at Judgment, did you take his life that's lyin' a corpse
before us'?”
“I did not,” replied M'Kenna; “I could clear myself on all the books
in Europe, that he met his death as I tould you; an' more nor that,”
he added, dropping upon his knees, and uncovering his head, “may I die
widout priest or prayer--widout help, hope, or happiness, upon the spot
where he's now stretched, if I murdhered or shot him.”
“I say amin to that,” replied Darby; “Oxis Doxis Glorioxis!--So far,
that's right, if the blood of him's not an you. But there's one thing
more to be done: will you walk over undher the eye of God, an' touch the
corpse? Hould back, neighbors, an' let him come over alone: I an' Owen
Reillaghan will stand here wid the lights, to see if the corpse bleeds.”
“Give me, too, a light,” said M'Kenna's father; “my son must get fair
play, anyway: must be a witness myself to it, an' will, too.”
“It's but rasonable,” said Owen Reillaghan; “come over beside Darby
an' myself: I'm willin' that your son should stand or fall by what'll
happen.”
Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, immediately went, with a pale
face and trembling steps, to the place appointed for him beside the
corpse, where he took his stand.
When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question he seemed as if seized by
an inward spasm: the start which he gave, and his gaspings for breath,
were visible to all present. Had he seen the spirit of the murdered man
before him, his horror could not have been greater; for this ceremony
had been considered a most decisive test in cases of suspicion of
murder--an ordeal, indeed, to which few murderers wished to submit
themselves. In addition to this we may observe, that Darby's knowledge
of the young man's character was correct; with all his crimes he was
weak-minded and superstitious.
He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had been proposed to
him; his hair became literally erect, with the dread of this formidable
scrutiny, his cheeks turned white, and the cold perspiration fell from
him in large drops. All his strength appeared to have departed from him;
he stood, as if hesitating, and even energy necessary to stand seemed to
be the result of an effort.
“Remember,” said Darby, pulling out the large crucifix which was
attached to his heads, “that the eye of God is upon you. If you've
committed the murdher, thrimble; if not, Frank, you've little to fear in
touchin' the corpse.”
Frank had not uttered a word; but, leaning himself on the gun, he looked
wildly around him, cast his eyes up to the stormy sky, then turned them
with a dead glare upon the corpse and the crucifix.
“Do you confiss the murdher?” said Darby.
“Murdher!” rejoined Frank: “no! I confess no murdher: you villain, do
you want to make me guilty;--do you want to make me guilty, you deep
villain?”
It seemed as if the current of his thoughts and feelings had taken a new
direction, though it is probable that the excitement which appeared to
be rising within him was only the courage of fear.
“You all wish to find me guilty,” he added: “but I'll show you that I'm
not guilty.”
He immediately walked towards the corpse, and stooping down, touched the
body with one hand, holding the gun in the other. The interest of that
moment was intense, and all eyes were strained towards the spot.
Behind the corpse, at each shoulder--for the body lay against a small
snow-wreath, in a recumbent position--stood the father of the deceased
and the father of the accused, each wound up by feelings of a directly
opposite character to a pitch of dreadful excitement over them, in his
fantastic dress and white beard, stood the tall mendicant, who held up
his crucifix to Frank, with an awful menace upon his strongly marked
countenance. At a little distance to the left of the body stood other
men who were assembled, having their torches held aloft in their
hands, and their forms bent towards the corpse, their laces indicating
expectation, dread, and horror The female relations of the deceased
nearest his remains, their torches extended in the same direction, their
visages exhibiting the passions of despair and grief in their wildest
characters, but as if arrested by some supernatural object immediately
before their eyes, that produced a new and more awful feeling than
grief. When the body was touched, Frank stood as if himself bound by a
spell to the spot. At length he turned his eyes to the mendicant, who
stood silent and motionless, with the crucifix still extended in his
hand.
“Are you satisfied now?” said he.
“That's wanst,” said the pilgrim: “you're to touch it three times.”
Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped again, and touched it
twice in succession; but it remained still and unchanged as before! His
father broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of thanksgiving to God
for the vindication of his son's character which he had just witnessed.
“Now!” exclaimed M'Kenna, in a loud, exulting tone, “you all see that I
did not murdher him!”
“You did!” said a voice, which was immediately recognized to be that of
the deceased.
M'Kenna shrieked aloud, and immediately fled with his gun towards
the mountains, pursued by Reillaghan's other son. The crowd rushed
in towards the body, whilst sorrow, affright, exultation, and wonder,
marked the extraordinary scene which ensued.
“Queen o' Heaven!” exclaimed old M'Kenna, “who could believe this only
they hard it?”
“The murdher wouldn't lie?” shrieked out Mrs. Reillaghan--“the murdher
wouldn't lie!--the blood o' my darlin' son spoke it!--his blood spoke
it; or God, or his angel, spoke it for him!”
“It's beyant anything ever known!” some exclaimed, “to come back an'
tell the deed upon his murdherer! God presarve us, an' save us, this
night! I wish we wor at home out o' this wild place!”
Others said they had heard of such things; but this having happened
before their own eyes, surpassed anything that could be conceived.
The mendicant now advanced, and once more mysteriously held up his
crucifix.
“Keep silence!” said he, in a solemn, sonorous voice: “Keep silence,
I say, an' kneel I down all o' yez before what I've in my hand. If you
want to know who or what the voice came from, I can tell yez:--it was
the crucifix THAT SPOKE!!”
This communication was received with a feeling of devotion too deep for
words. His injunction was instantly complied with: they knelt, and bent
down in worship before it in the mountain wilds.
“Ay,” said he, “little ye know the virtues of that crucifix! It was
consecrated by a friar so holy that it was well known there was but the
shadow of him upon the earth, the other part of him bein' night an' day
in heaven among the archangels. It shows the power of this Crass, any
way; an you may tell your frinds, that I'll sell bades touched wid it
to the faithful at sixpence apiece. They can be put an your padareens as
Dicades, wid a blessin'. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis--Amin! Let us now bear
the corpse home, antil it's dressed and laid out dacently as it ought to
be.”
The body was then placed upon an easy litter, formed of great-coats
buttoned together, and supported by the strongest men present, who held
it one or two at each corner. In this manner they advanced at a slow
pace, until they reached Owen Reillaghan's house, where they found
several of the country-people assembled, waiting for their return.
It was not until the body had been placed in an inner room, where none
were admitted until it should be laid out, that the members of the
family first noticed the prolonged absence of Reillaghan's other son.
The moment it had been alluded to, they were seized with new alarm and
consternation.
“_Hanim an diouol!_” said Reillaghan, bitterly, in Irish, “but I doubt
the red-handed villain has cut short the lives of my two brave sons!
I only hope he may stop in the country: I'm not widout friends an'
followers that 'ud think it no sin in a just cause to pay him in his own
coin, an' to take from him an' his a pound o' blood for every ounce of
ours they shed.”
A number of his friends instantly volunteered to retrace their way to
the mountains, and search for the other son. “There's little danger
of his life,” said a relation; “it's a short time Frank 'ud stand him
particularly as the gun wasn't charged. We'll go, at any rate, for
'fraid he might lose himself in the mountains, or walk into some o' the
lochs on his way home. We had as good bring some whiskey wid us, for he
may want it badly.”
While they had been speaking, however, the snow began to fall and the
wind to blow in a manner that promised a heavy and violent storm. They
proceeded, notwithstanding, on their search, and on whistling for the
dog, discovered that he was not to be found.
“He went wid us to the mountains, I know,” said the former speaker; “an'
I think it likely he'll be found wid Owen, wherever he is. Come, boys,
step out: it's a dismal night, any way, the Lord knows.
“Och, och!” And with sorrowful but vigorous steps they went in quest of
the missing brother.
Nothing but the preternatural character of the words which Were so
mysteriously pronounced immediately before Owen's pursuit of M'Kenna,
could have prevented that circumstance, together with the flight of the
latter, from exciting greater attention among the crowd. His absence,
however, now that they had time to reflect on it, produced unusual
alarm, not only on account of M'Kenna's bad character, but from the
apprehension of Owen being lost in the mountains.
The inextinguishable determination of revenge with which an Irishman
pursues any person who, either directly or indirectly, takes the life
of a near relation, or invades the peace of his domestic affections,
was strongly illustrated by the nature of Owen's pursuit after M'Kenna,
considering the appalling circumstances under which he undertook it. It
is certainly more than probable that M'Kenna, instead of flying would
have defended himself with the loaded gun, had not his superstitious
fears been excited by the words which so mysteriously charged him with
the murder. The direction he accidentally took led both himself and his
pursuer into the wildest recesses of the mountains. The chase was close
and desperate, and certainly might have been fatal to Reillaghan, had
M'Kenna thought of using the gun. His terror, however, exhausted him,
and overcame his presence of mind to such a degree, that so far from
using the weapon in his defence, he threw it aside, in order to gain
ground upon his pursuer. This he did but slowly, and the pursuit was as
yet uncertain. At length Owen found the distance between himself and his
brother's murderer increasing; the night was dark, and he himself feeble
and breathless: he therefore gave over all hope of securing him, and
returned to follow those who had accompanied him to the spot where his
brother's body lay. It was when retracing his path that the nature of
his situation occurred to him: the snow had not began to fall, but the
appearance of the sky was strongly calculated to depress him.
Every person knows with what remarkable suddenness snow storms descend.
He had scarcely advanced homewards more than twenty minutes, when the
gray tempest spread its dusky wings over the heavens, and a darker shade
rapidly settled upon the white hills--now becoming indistinct in the
gloom of the air, which was all in commotion, and groaned aloud with the
noise of the advancing storm. When he saw the deep gloom, and felt the
chilling coldness pierce his flesh so bitterly, he turned himself in the
direction which led by the shortest possible line towards his father's
house. He was at this time nearly three miles from any human habitation;
and as he looked into the darkness, his heart began to palpitate with an
alarm almost bordering on hopelessness. His dog, which had, up till
this boding' change, gone on before him, now partook in his master's
apprehensions, and trotted anxiously at his feet.
In the meantime the winds howled in a melancholy manner along the
mountains, and carried with them from the upper clouds the rapidly
descending sleet. The storm-current, too, was against him, and as the
air began to work in dark confusion, he felt for the first time how
utterly helpless a thing he was under the fierce tempest in this
dreadful solitude.
A length the rushing sound which he first heard in the distance
approached him in all its terrors; and in a short time he was
staggering, like a drunken man, under the incessant drifts which
swept over him and about him. Nothing could exceed the horrors of the
atmosphere at this moment. From the surface of the earth the whirlwinds
swept immense snow-clouds that rose up instantaneously, and shot off
along the brows and ravines of the solitary wild, sometimes descending
into the valleys, and again rushing up the almost perpendicular sides
of the mountains, with a speed, strength, and noise, that mocked
at everything possessing life; whilst in the air the tumult and the
darkness continued to deepen in the most awful manner. The winds seemed
to meet from every point of the compass, and the falling drifts flew
backward and forward in every direction; the cold became intense, and
Owen's efforts to advance homewards were beginning to fail. He was
driven about like an autumn leaf, and his dog, which kept close to him,
had nearly equal difficulty in proceeding. No sound but that of the
tempest could now be heard, except the screaming of the birds as they
were tossed on sidewing through the commotion which prevailed. In this
manner was Owen whirled about, till he lost all knowledge of his local
situation, being ignorant whether he advanced towards home or otherwise,
His mouth and eyes were almost filled with driving sleet; sometimes a'
cloud of light sandlike drift would almost bury him, as it crossed, or
followed, or opposed his path; sometimes he would sink to the middle in
a snow-wreath, from which he extricated himself with great difficulty;
and among the many terrors by which he was beset, that of walking into
a lake, or over a precipice, was not the least paralyzing. Owen was a
young man of great personal strength and activity, for the possession
of which, next to his brother, he had been distinguished among his
companions; but he now became totally exhausted; the chase after
M'Kenna, his former exertion, his struggles, his repeated falls, his
powerful attempts to get into the vicinity of life, the desperate
strength he put forth in breaking through the vortex of the whirlwind,
all had left him faint, and completely at the mercy of the elements.
The cold sleet scales were now frozen to ice on his cheeks; his clothes
were completely incrusted with the hard snow, which had been beating
into them by the strength of the blast, and his joints were getting
stiff and benumbed. The tumult of the tempest, the whirling of the
snow-clouds, and the thick snow, now falling, and again tossed upwards
by sudden gusts to the sky, deprived him of all power of reflection,
and rendered him, though not altogether blind or deaf, yet incapable of
forming any distinct opinion upon what he saw or heard. Still, actuated
by the unconscious principle of self preservation, he tottered on, cold,
feeble, and breathless, now driven back like a reed by the strong rush
of the storm, or prostrated almost to suffocation under the whirlwinds,
that started up like savage creatures of life about him.
During all this time his faithful dog never abandoned him; but his wild
bowlings only heightened the horrors of his situation. When he fell, the
affectionate creature would catch the flap of his coat, or his arm,
in his teeth, and attempt to raise him; and as long as his master had
presence of mind, with the unerring certainty of instinct, he would turn
him, when taking a wrong direction, into that which led homewards.
Owen was not, however, reduced to this state without experiencing
sensations of which no language could convey adequate notions. At first
he struggled heroically with the storm; but when utter darkness threw
its impervious shades over the desolation around him, and the fury of
the elements grew so tremendous, all the strong propensities to life
became roused, the convulsive throes of a young heart on the steep of
death threw a wild and corresponding energy into his vigorous frame,
and occasioned him to cling to existence with a tenacity rendered still
stronger by the terrible consciousness of his unprepared state, and the
horror of being plunged into eternity unsupported by the rites of his
church, whilst the crime of attempting to take away human life lay
on his soul. Those domestic affections, too, which in Irishmen are
so strong, became excited; his home, his fireside, the faces of his
kindred, already impressed with affliction for the death of one brother,
were conjured up in the powerful imagery of natural feeling, the
fountains of which were opened in his heart, and his agonizing cry for
life rose wildly from the mountain desert upon the voice of the tempest.
Then, indeed, when the gulf of a twofold death yawned before him,
did the struggling spirit send up its shrieking prayer to heaven with
desperate impulse. These struggles, however, as well as those of the
body, became gradually weaker as the storm tossed him about, and with
the chill of its breath withered him into total helplessness. He reeled
on, stiff and insensible, without knowing whither he went, falling with
every blast, and possessing scarcely any faculty of life except mere
animation.
After about an hour, however, the storm subsided, and the clouds broke
away into light, fleecy columns before the wind; the air, too, became
less cold, and the face of nature more visible. The driving sleet and
hard, granular snow now ceased to fall; but were succeeded by large
feathery flakes, that descended slowly upon the still air.
Had this trying scene lasted much longer, Owen must soon have been a
stiffened corpse. The child-like strength, however, which just enabled
him to bear up without sinking in despair to die, now supported him
when there was less demand for energy. The dog, too, by rubbing itself
against him, and licking his face, enabled him, by a last effort,
to recollect himself, so as to have a glimmering perception of his
situation. His confidence returned, and with a greater degree of
strength. He shook, as well as he could, the snow from his 'clothes,
where it had accumulated heavily, and felt himself able to proceed,
slowly, it is true, towards his father's house, which he had nearly
reached when he met his friends, who were once: more hurrying out to
the mountains in quest of him, having been compelled to return in
consequence of the storm, when they had I first set out. The whiskey,
their companionship, and their assistance soon revived him. One or two
were despatched home before them, to apprise the afflicted family of
his safety; and the intelligence was hailed with melancholy joy by the
Reillaghans. A faint light played for a moment over the gloom Which had
settled among them, but it was brief; for on ascertaining the safety
of their second son, their grief rushed back with renewed violence, and
nothing could be heard but the voice of sorrow and affliction.
Darby More, who had assumed the control of the family, did everything
in his power to console them; his efforts, however, were viewed with a
feeling little short of indignation.
“Darby,” said the afflicted mother, “you have, undher God, in some
sense, my fair son's death to account for. You had a dhrame, but you
wouldn't tell it to us. If you had, my boy might be livin' this day, for
it would be asy for him to be an his guard.”
“Musha, poor woman,” replied Darby, “sure you don't know, you afflicted
crathur, what you're spakin' about. Tell my dhrame! Why, thin, it's
myself towld it to him from beginning to ind, and that whin we wor goin'
to mass this day itself. I desired him, on the paril of his life, not to
go out a tracin' or toards the mountains, good or bad.”
“You said you had a prayer that 'ud keep it back,” observed the mother,
“an' why didn't you say it?”
“I did say it,” replied Darby, “an' that afore a bit crassed my throath
this mornin'; but, you see, he broke his promise of not goin' to the
mountains, an' that was what made the dhrame come thrue.”
“Well, well, Darby, I beg your pardon, an' God's pardon, for judgin' you
in the wrong. Oh, wurrah sthrue! my brave son, is it there you're lyin'
wid us, avourneen machree!” and she again renewed her grief.
“Oh, thin, I'm sure I forgive you,” said Darby: “but keep your grief in
for a start, till I say the _De Prowhinjis_ over him, for the pace an'
repose of his sowl. Kneel down all of yez.”
He repeated this prayer in language which it would require one of Edward
Irving's adepts in the Unknown Tongues to interpret. When he had recited
about half of it, Owen, and those who had gone to seek him, entered the
house, and after the example of the others, reverently knelt down until
he finished it.
Owen's appearance once more renewed their grief. The body of his brother
had been removed to a bed beyond the fire in the kitchen; and when Owen
looked upon the features of his beloved companion, he approached, and
stooped down to kiss his lips. He was still too feeble, however, to bend
by his own strength; and it is also probable that the warm air of the
house relaxed him. Be this, however, as it may, he fell forward, but
supported himself by his hands, which were placed upon the body; a deep
groan was heard, and the apparently dead man opened his eyes, and feebly
exclaimed--“A dhrink? a dhrink!”